Marlene (3 page)

She would marry again. Liesel and I would have a new stepfather—a man we did not know, who we’d be expected to respect and obey.

“We’ve not yet decided our living arrangements, but I assume after the wedding, we’ll move to his house in Dessau. I’m going there next week to see if it’s suitable. In the meantime, you are not to say a word to anyone. I don’t want the neighbors gossiping out of turn or advising the landlord that we intend to give notice. Is that understood?”

“Yes, Mutti,” Liesel and I said in unison.

“Good.” She tried to smile, but it was such an infrequent occurrence
for her, it came out as a grimace. “Now, wash your faces and say your prayers.” As we turned to leave, she called out, “Lena, make sure you wash behind your ears.”

Liesel didn’t speak as we took our turns in the cramped washroom, undressed, and slipped into our narrow twin beds. A nightstand separated us; I could have reached across and touched her, but I didn’t, lying on my back to stare up at the ceiling. When I heard Mutti in the foyer, on her knees with her rags and wax, I whispered, “Why would she do this, at her age?”

My sister sighed. “She’s only thirty-eight. It’s not so old. Herr von Losch is also a colonel in the Imperial Grenadiers, as Papa was. He must be an honest man.”

“Thirty-eight seems old enough to me,” I retorted. “And how do we know he’s honest? She supervises his maids. What can she know about him, besides how much starch to use on his shirts?” My voice hardened. “And Dessau is so far away that I’ll have to leave my school.”

“Lena.” Liesel turned to me, her eyes like two pinched holes in the gloom. “You mustn’t try her. She only does what is best for us.”

Somehow, I doubted that. Marrying a stranger and upending our existence didn’t seem like what was best for anyone, save for her and Herr von Losch.

“A woman alone is a terrible thing,” Liesel went on. “You cannot understand, but to be a widow with two daughters to raise—it’s a test of perseverance.” She turned away, pulling her sheet to her chin. Within minutes, she was snoring. Liesel would not protest. Whatever Mutti said or did, she always complied. A parlor here or there: It was all the same to her.

While I had other interests. I had my secret.

With my sheets bunched in my fists, I did not fall asleep for a long time.

III

I
trudged through the weekend. Mutti couldn’t help but notice, especially when Liesel whispered, “Stop glowering!” But she refrained from any chastisement, first having us clean the entire apartment, floors and windows included, before she received word that Uncle Willi couldn’t visit. Instead, to my delight, Mutti said we would go see him in Berlin.

I loved Unter den Linden in the city, that sweeping boulevard with its luxurious shopping emporia; here, we visited the Felsing Clock and Watch Company run by Uncle Willi. Delighted to see us, he took us to a
confiserie
for vanilla cakes and marzipan, and then on to the Café Bauer on the Friedrichstrasse for hot chocolate to go with our cakes. I had an insatiable sweet tooth, and Mutti, for all her rigidity at the table, indulged my vice, as a girl with flesh on her bones proved she came from an upstanding family. I ate my share but also surreptitiously wrapped several marzipans in my handkerchief, pocketing them while Uncle Willi paid the bill, even as my sister eyed me in dismay.

Mutti did not mention her upcoming marriage again, at least not with us, though I assumed at some point she informed Uncle Willi. She didn’t believe in debating her decisions with us, and of course we were in no position to challenge them. But rebelliousness seethed in me. By the following
week, I felt so helpless before this momentous change in my life, I stopped pretending in class and vied openly for Mademoiselle’s attention. I was the first to present my flawless assignments, the first to raise my hand and answer any question she posed, oblivious to the others’ glares when she commended me for my diligence.

“Let Maria be an example,” she told the class, giving me her coveted smile. “She has shown that with the proper attitude and diligence, anyone can learn to speak French.”

As almost everyone suspected I had started out with an advantage they lacked, I didn’t endear myself to my classmates and I didn’t care. I wanted only to endear myself to her. The marzipan I’d taken became little gifts wrapped in scraps of lace, adorned with a single poppy, which I deposited on her desk every day before I left, my eyes downcast as she exclaimed, “How thoughtful of you,” and I murmured, “
De rien,
Mademoiselle.” That the marzipan was misshapen, soggy from being stored in my pocket, made no difference; it was my gesture of appreciation that mattered.

The very next week when Mutti went to Dessau to determine if the von Losch house would suit as our new residence, which meant she’d return home later than usual, Mademoiselle invited me to a stroll after school. Although I’d promised to go straight home to help Liesel with chores and supper—as predicted, our maid had been sacked—I waited for Mademoiselle outside the gates. She emerged with her satchel stuffed with books and a straw boater on her head.

“Shall we?” she said, and I found myself walking beside her to the boulevard, passing laced-up ladies with parasols and dogs on leashes, gentlemen in bowler hats and gold fob chains slung from vests, and tired governesses with protesting charges in tow. Any of them might know Mutti. Despite its proximity to Berlin, Schöneberg was still a garrison town, where the kaiser barracked his troops. Everyone knew everyone else. I kept my face lowered under my cap, hoping my uniform would hide my identity. To my relief, no one paid us particular mind, the men doffing their hats and the ladies murmuring their
guten Tags
.

“Let’s have a coffee.” Mademoiselle stopped at a corner café, taking
one of the outdoor marble-topped tables. As I perched opposite her, I realized that in daylight, she was even lovelier than in the classroom, her hazel eyes flecked with green, her lips as pink as the ribbon on her hat. A few stray hairs from her chignon clung to her cheek. I had to clench my hands in my lap to stop myself from reaching over to peel them off her skin.

She ordered. The waiter frowned. “Coffee for the fräulein?”

“How silly of me.” She laughed. “Marlene, would you prefer a chocolate or a lemonade?”

“No, thank you.” I straightened my back. “Coffee is fine.”

I’d never had coffee. Mutti drank tea. Proper ladies only drank tea. Regardless of its popularity, according to Mutti, coffee was a foreign predilection that soured one’s breath.

While we waited to be served, Mademoiselle sighed and removed her boater, running her fingers through her hair, causing more strands to unravel about her face. Then without warning, she said, “Now, you must tell me what troubles you.”

I was startled. “Troubles me? Nothing, Mademoiselle.” Except that I was sitting at a café on the boulevard with her and was afraid someone who knew Mutti might see us.

“Oh, no.” She wagged her finger. “I’ve sufficient experience to know when a student tries to hide something.”

“Experience?”

“Yes.” She nodded as the waiter set two cups of dark liquid before us, pouring cream from the pitcher into hers. She extended the pitcher. “It’s less bitter this way. Add sugar, too.” As I did, she went on, “Before I took this job, I worked as a governess in a large house. I had three charges. I know when a girl fears saying what’s on her mind.”

For a paralyzing instant, I thought she’d seen through me, my gifts of marzipan and eagerness for attention betraying me. But then I realized she didn’t appear angry or upset, her candid gaze on me as she said, “I promise whatever you tell me will stay between us.”

“Like . . . a secret?” I asked. I sipped the coffee; it tasted like sweet molten velvet.

“If you like.
Un secret entre nous
.”

My French might be good, but not good enough to describe my surge of emotion. I didn’t want to impose on her astonishing informality, exciting as it was. No one had ever asked me what I felt, much less my innermost thoughts. As if Mutti were at my side, a sibilant shadow in my ear, I heard:
We never display our feelings in public.

I tore my gaze from her face. “It really is nothing,” I muttered.

Her hand slid over mine. Her fingers were so warm, the sensation speared all the way to my toes. “Please. I want to help you, if I can.”

Was I so transparent? Or was it rather that until this moment, no one had ever deigned to see me as someone with feelings worth noting?

“It’s . . . my mother. She’s getting married again.”

“Is that all? But I had the impression it must be something else.”

“Such as?” I was terrified to learn what else she’d divined, prepared to be told that my affection, while flattering, was hardly appropriate between a student and her teacher.

Instead she said, “I thought there might be a boy you liked, perhaps, or some female trouble?”

I understood the euphemism and shook my head. I’d had my first menses three months before.

“Then it is only your mother getting married? But why? Do you not like her suitor?”

“I don’t know him. My father died when I was six. Until now, it’s just been Mutti, my sister, and me. . . .” Before I knew it, I was telling her all about Herr von Losch and the threatening move to Dessau, about my talent for the violin and Mutti’s ambition to see me enter the conservatory. I curbed my outburst only when I was about to confess that she also troubled me, as I had no words to explain what she made me feel, but that I didn’t want to go anywhere that might take me away from her.

She sipped her coffee. “I understand how frightening change can be,” she said at length. “
Mon Dieu,
how I understand. But it doesn’t seem as if you’ve reason to worry. Your mother sounds like a decent woman who has found a husband to care for her. You want her to be happy, don’t you? And
Dessau isn’t too far away. I’m certain there are schools there, with other girls.” She paused. “You’ve not made friends here. That dark-haired girl who sits next to you in class, Hilde—she’s always trying to catch your attention but you behave as if she’s invisible.”

She did? I hadn’t noticed. But then I never noticed anything at school these days, except Mademoiselle.

“A girl like you,” she said, “so pretty and intelligent. Why, you could have a hundred friends if you wanted them. But you never try, do you?”

The conversation had taken an awkward turn. I didn’t want to talk about my lack of friends; I wanted—

She pointed at my cup. “You should drink that before it gets cold.”

As I gulped down the now-lukewarm coffee, she regarded me with that disconcerting blend of sincerity and insight that made me think she could read my deepest thoughts.

“Have you ever been to a
cinématographe
?” she abruptly asked.

“A what?” Her question was so disconcerting, I had no idea what she meant.

“A moving picture. A flicker.”

I knew the term but had never seen one. Mutti did not approve.

“You haven’t. Marvelous! There’s one near here. It’s not grand like those in Berlin, but not as expensive, either. It’s in a cabaret hall, where they show flickers on weekday evenings. Would you like to go? I adore the cinema. I believe it’s the new entertainment for our modern age, which will make even the theater seem passé. They’re showing
Der Untergang der
Titanic
.
Do you know what it’s about?”

I nodded. “The
Titanic
sank after striking an iceberg.” I remembered because when it happened two years earlier, every newspaper boy had blared the headline for days on end.

“Indeed. Many lives were lost. This moving picture is supposed to be amazing. Continental-Kunstfilm in Berlin produced it. They’re building entire studios dedicated to the cinema.” She gestured to the waiter for the check. “If we hurry, we can make the first showing.”

I knew I should decline, thank her for the coffee and advice, and make
my way back before it was too late. Liesel would worry. She’d tell Mutti I’d been late coming home, and—

Mademoiselle ladled coins onto the platter with the bill and stood, holding out her hand. “Quickly, Marlene. Before we miss the Stadtbahn!”

How could I resist? Grasping her hand, I let Mademoiselle Bréguand lead me astray.

I WEPT.

I couldn’t help it, my sorrow and amazement overcoming me as the grainy images on the warped sheet hung on the wall as a screen came to life, depicting a titan lost at sea, the forlorn men waiting on deck while the orchestra played and the tragic women huddled in lifeboats, witnesses to catastrophe. At one point, I even grabbed Mademoiselle’s knee, so overwhelmed that I forgot we were in public, albeit in a darkened hall that stank of beer and stale cigarettes, with others seated around us, their gasps and whispered commentary enhancing the mute display.

Afterward, I was in a daze.

“Wasn’t it sublime?” Mademoiselle’s face was luminous. “I want to be there one day.”

“On the
Titanic
?” I managed to say, trying to shake off the sensation of being stranded on the open sea, watching my loved ones sink under cold black water.

“No, silly. Up there. On the screen. I want to be an actress; it’s why I left Paris to come here. I’m working as a teacher until I earn enough to rent a room in Berlin. It’s terribly expensive to live in Berlin these days—it’s the fastest city in the world and I need extra money to pay for my rent and dramatic classes.” She took my hand again as we waited for the overhead Stadtbahn tram. “Now, we both have secrets to keep. I’ve just told you mine.”

I longed to ask her if there was someone she loved or missed, whom she’d left behind in France to pursue her dream. But I couldn’t untangle the words from my mouth, and all too soon we reached the boulevard, where
the new electrical lighting shed a sulfuric glow over the populace as they milled about the beer gardens and cafés.

We hurried toward the shuttered school.

By the gates, she halted. “I live this way,” she said, motioning to a side street that wound between ramshackle older buildings. “But I can accompany you home and explain why you’re late.” Her mischievous smile crinkled her mouth. “We’ll have to say you didn’t finish your assignment in time. It might mean your mother will be displeased.”